


The Queens of Samarkand

by doomcanary



Series: Melinna [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur throws dead goats about, Gender Roles, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderfuck, Genderplay, M/M, Magical Accidents, OCs like whoa, what the hell is sherbet anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-02
Updated: 2009-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:19:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First there was And That Word Must Be Clear, then there was When Arthur Does That (see the Melinna series). Now, the court of Camelot is a long way from home; and things aren't always what they seem in Samarkand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The court of Sultan Malik abd el Suleyman known as the Beneficent is a beautiful place, Arthur is forced to admit. It has gardens, and fountains, and exotic birds; Arthur should be impressed. Or rather, he _would_ be impressed, if he wasn't so damn hot. It's twilight, and not a whisper of the heat of the day has dissipated yet; even out here in the colonnade, open to the court out of which his chambers bud, the coloured tiles are warm against his shirtless back. The fountain hidden among the greenery plays, almost breaking the oppressive heat; but not close enough. Arthur has half a mind to go and sit in it. He's already called for Merlin to draw him a bath, but nobody seems to know where the useless oaf has gone; Arthur sent him out without thinking, and now he's stuck with the Sultan's servants, who barely speak a word of English and don't seem to feel the heat. He really is going to get into that fountain, he decides; propriety be damned.

He's half way towards it when he hears a rustle from the bed of greenery just ahead. Instantly he's alert, his hand going to the dagger that's still at his waist; he makes a rush forward, and in the dimness a pale figure flinches and yelps. Arthur grabs for it. His hand meets warm bare flesh – what? - but before it's had time to sink in, he's dragging the intruder towards the hanging lamp, into its circle of yellow, moth-fluttering light.

“Melinna?” says Arthur. “Good grief.”

“Arthur,” says Melinna, glaring at him. “How nice.”

Arthur recollects himself, and lets her go. “What a lovely surprise to find you here,” he attempts.

“Isn't it just,” says Melinna, with a certain edge.

It's at this point that it filters through to Arthur that she isn't wearing very much. In fact, she's barely wearing anything at all; a dreadfully abbreviated little vest on top, exposing an acre or more of cleavage, and what looks like several yards of diaphanous gauze around her legs. It seems to be some sort of pantaloons. There's something dark smudged around her eyes, her glossy black hair is swept up in a high ponytail adorned by a ruffle of silk, and her midriff is bare, as are her arms.

“I see you've gone native,” Arthur says.

“I swear there's a reason for that,” Melinna says. Her eyes flick downwards; Arthur remembers he's wearing no shirt.

“Apart from just the heat, you mean,” he says. He puts his hands behind his back; it stops him coming quite so close to giving in to the urge to touch, and if it also happens to flatter his chest, he's not going to be all that upset.

“Yes,” says Melinna, her eyes lingering on his torso. Arthur permits himself a smile.

“Would you like to come inside?”

“I rather think I would,” she says, apparently to his nipples. “It's been a long time.”

The conversation skids to a halt; they stand in the airy courtyard – well, it would be airy if there was any air – and eye each other longingly. Arthur's memory is full of her, their last encounter brought powerfully back by her present state of semi-dress. He can almost feel her skin under his fingertips, the smallness of her waist, the way it flexes and twists between his hands; she was such a mercurial creature, always moving, shifting, never still. Standing there, so close to her and yet so far away, Arthur wants her, powerfully. He wants to kneel to her, press his face to her gauzy belly, strip her naked and bury his face between her legs; and he wants her to pin him down, a kitten mastering a tiger, wants her prowling over his chest and sliding the tight little mouth of herself over his cock.

“What?” says Melinna, suspicion trumping the delights of his muscle tone.

Arthur decides upon frankness. He clears his throat politely, and adjusts himself. Melinna's eyes flick down, then up to his face; she looks half impatient, half amused.

“You know I really have to be somewhere,” she says. “Now.”

And then she puts her hands on his waist, pushes him backwards into the blue and white room and backs him against the wall. Arthur swallows a moan as she swallows his cock, cooling tiles against his shoulders as her mouth burns on him, and he comes far, far too fast. He's still dazed and catching his breath when the door closes after her.

 

“Gaius, I've done something!” yelps Merlin, slamming the door and putting his back to it. Gaius turns, with a long-suffering air, and then his expression crashes through shock to disbelief.

“That much is extremely obvious, Merlin,” he says. “What on earth are you doing wearing that – wearing _that_?”

“You told me to find out who that woman in the armoury was. Well she's a woman, so I had to get into the harem to find her, so I -”

“Oh, _Merlin_.”

“I know the spell!” he protests. “Or, well, I thought I did.”

“What happened, Merlin?”

“I didn't find anything. And I can't change back.”

“And yet here you stand in all your rich pageantry. Can't?”

“It happened by itself.”

There's a pause. Merlin tries not to look guilty, and he knows he's failing.

“What else aren't you telling me, Merlin?” Gaius says, folding his arms.

At that moment, the door bangs open and Arthur walks in. He looks a bit dishevelled and remarkably, well, _smug_.

“Have either of you seen Lady Melinna?” he asks.

The look Gaius gives Merlin could curdle milk. Then Arthur catches actual sight of Merlin, and stops dead. It's very, very slightly too long before he speaks, and Merlin tries his level best to look innocent. It's not easy when he can still taste Arthur's cock.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Er-” Merlin begins.

“We believe someone may be trying to use magic on your property, sire,” Gaius cuts in. “Merlin is... attempting to discover the facts.”

“In that.”

Merlin blushes. Right down to his waist, he realises as he looks down.

“It's not unknown for rulers to keep male concubines,” Gaius puts in, in a tone Merlin will have nightmares about for many years to come. Arthur looks like he feels the same.

“Funny,” says Arthur. “It looks remarkably similar to something else I've seen.”

“Melinna lent it me,” Merlin says hastily. Arthur's face could be painted, and treasured for generations.

“I don't,” says the prince, in a tone of absolute and total certainty, “want to know. Goodnight, Gaius, tell me if you find anything.”

“Goodnight, your highness.”

 

Merlin has nothing to say in the morning, and gets amusingly embarrassed when Arthur questions him about the harem, and whether he enjoyed his outfit. So much so, in fact, that he grabs Arthur's breakfast tray almost before he's finished, and dashes out of the room. Arthur has little to do until the Sultan's promised hunting trip this afternoon, and decides to get to know the palace a little better; dressed in his finest linen he sets out to explore.

Barely a few corners away, he stops dead, face to face with Melinna. She looks shocked.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says.

“Fancy,” says Melinna. She doesn't look too happy about it; Arthur winces inwardly.

“I didn't know you were here,” he says.

“I didn't know I was coming,” she says. “Not until last night.”

“May I ask what brings you to Samarkand?”

“It's complicated. I'm trying to sort something out.”

“Ah,” says Arthur urbanely. “Politics.”

“Yes, you could call it that,” says Melinna woefully.

“Well, I must admit it's a pleasure to have you here,” Arthur smiles. At that, she seems to thaw.

“It's not too bad,” she says, and rewards him with her wonderful, cheeky grin.

“Perhaps you'd like to dine with me later,” he suggests. “I'm sure Merlin will be delighted to see you again.”

For some reason that seems to have been the wrong thing to say; her expression goes a little tight at the mention of Merlin.

“I don't think I can,” she says. “I keep getting – dragged off at inopportune times.”

“Ugh,” says Arthur. “Don't remind me. This is the first clear day I've had since I arrived. I'm coward enough to hide from it all for a while. I dread to think what it's like for a woman, this place is very strange.”

Melinna puts her head on one side.

“Speaking of which,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her smile turns wicked. “Don't you owe me something?”

Arthur feels his entire body flush. “I thought you'd never ask.”

She gives him a wicked grin, and tugs him by the hand into a room that opens off the hall. It's full of jars and baskets; some kind of store. He shuts the door. Melinna takes his hand, and slides it into her skirt, through the slit where her pocket should be. But she's not wearing pockets, or a petticoat, and Arthur's fingers touch skin.

“I see,” he says.

“All those layers?” says Melinna. “Way too hot.”

“It is a little warm.”

His fingers slip into soft hair and curl between her thighs. She spreads them a little, and he finds her already wet.

“Yes,” she says softly. “Inside me.”

He can only oblige. She rocks slowly on his hand; it's maddening, filling Arthur with the desire to be fucking her just as torturously slow. Her eyes close, and her face is starting to flush a little as she breathes hard; and then she shivers and pulls away, and swears under her breath.

“Gods, I'm sorry,” she says, and runs out of the room. Arthur sets his jaw, and deliberately doesn't shout “ _Fuck_!” at the top of his voice. Instead, he takes a brief moment to compose himself. Then he walks briskly back to his rooms, the fingers of his right hand curled into the palm. Inside, he stops in the middle of the room and raises them to his face, breathing in the scent of Melinna; his other hand he slides into his breeches, palming his cock. Drifts of her musk wash over him with each slow stroke of his hand, rolling in and evanescing on his breath. He sucks his fingers into his mouth, tasting rich sharpness, just in time to feel himself shudder and come.

 

Uther is being conducted rapidly through the halls on his way to a tour of the gardens, which he has loved since he first met the Valide and her late husband, when he catches sight of a face he recognises from somewhere. It's a dark-haired woman he once met in his own court, and she's disappearing into a side chamber with a distinctly suspicious air. He vaguely recalls that she's a relative of Morgana's, which might explain a lot.

“This way, _emir_ ,” says the eunuch who's guiding him, with the kind of patient impatience only a lifetime of servitude perfects.

Unfortunately a sandstorm blows in mere moments after they reach the Valide and her ladies, seated in the open air, and the garden visit is hastily cut short. Uther is led back along the same hallway not long after; just in time, in fact, to see the dreadful incompetent Arthur calls a servant emerging from the self-same room with a certain air of satisfaction and relief. Uther can only presume that his lady companion is recovering within. Perhaps there's more about this Merlin fellow than there seems.

 

“Did you know Melinna's here?” Arthur asks Merlin, when he finally appears again. Really he doesn't know what Merlin finds to do with his time, so far from all the busyness of home.

“Yes, I did,” says Merlin flatly. “You mentioned it. Several times.”

“Something wrong, Merlin? Haven't had an argument with your ladyfriend, I hope?”

He's being cruel and he knows it; Merlin's well aware Melinna slept with him, and it's pretty unlikely he's missed that it's happened again. They may be a long way from home, but the household came too, and where Camelot's servants are Camelot's gossip machine is never far behind.

“Argument?” says Merlin. “Anything but. I can't get rid of her.”

“Now now,” says Arthur. “She's not that bad.”

“In small doses,” mutters Merlin, and drowns Arthur's next words by unceremoniously smothering him in a clean shirt.

Truth be told, Arthur isn't quite sure what his next words would have been. There's something about the tension in Merlin's face he doesn't like.

“You're not jealous, Merlin,” he teases. It's not what he wants to say, but he doesn't know what that is, so he goes for the best he has.

“No I'm not,” snaps Merlin. “Do what you like with her. I'm quite sure she loves it.”

Just then as Merlin goes to fasten his belt, Arthur catches a whiff of something that reminds him sharply of Melinna. It could well be Arthur himself; he probably should have washed his hands. It makes him drift a little, the tone under of Merlin's words going over his head. “She does seem to enjoy herself a lot,” he muses.

Merlin tugs sharply at the buckle, bringing him back to himself. There's a flush on his servant's fair cheeks, and he's looking down. Something unpleasant occurs to him.

“Merlin,” he says. Merlin looks up, and there's something unreadable in his blue eyes. “Tell me you're not sleeping with Melinna too.”  
He doesn't know what would be worse; Merlin's betrayal or Melinna's.

“No,” says Merlin. “No, that's not the problem. Really not.” He looks like he's trying to tell Arthur something; his eyes are intense, their blue flecked with indigo, and Arthur can't make himself look away. Merlin is – striking, as men go. Arthur wouldn't have blamed Melinna, really, if she had.

The moment is broken by a knock at the door.

“Majesty,” says the Sultan's man, bowing low. “We are ready to depart.”

“One moment,” says Arthur. The man backs out. Arthur turns a searching gaze on Merlin.

“Still nothing,” Merlin mutters. “We don't know what she did, or even if I interrupted her before she finished it. Be careful.”

When he gets to the outer door, Merlin's no longer behind him; he doesn't recall seeing him disappear.

 

Uther has never greatly enjoyed state visits, but he's willing to make an exception for Samarkand. The climate, if nothing else, recommends it, and the Sultana – now the Valide – is a worthy woman and an excellent opponent at chess. He is, however, unconvinced that he's entirely au fait with the political undercurrents of the present court, and it's that that draws him to the chamber Gaius is occupying, in the lengthening light of afternoon. Gaius trained in his youth with some of the finest healers in the Levant and as a result speaks excellent Arabic; he's also the single most scheming and devious individual Uther has ever known. In Uther's twenties Gaius had seemed to take a perverse delight in leading him down blind alleys simply to bamboozle him, and he had once spent several weeks firmly convinced that Gaius was involved in a torrid affair with the head cook, based entirely on Gaius quite deliberately leading him on. In the end the whole thing turned out to be nothing more than a misunderstanding involving treatment for an embarrassing ailment suffered by the cook's wife, which had been gone for a month bythe time Uther found this out. He long ago gave up trying to read the man, and has simply relied on him as an advisor ever since. Couple that with the Valide's unaccountable soft spot for him, and Gaius is the single member of Camelot's household most likely to know what's going on in Samarkand.

Unfortunately, as he comes up to the physician's door, it seems he's not alone.

“Gaius,” says a female voice, “I don't suppose you saw where my kirtle went?”

“Over there on the floor,” Gaius says, with unmistakable affection in his voice. “Come here, let me help you with that. Really, you're terribly slapdash for a lady of the court.”

A lady of the court? Almost none of them have come to Samarkand. Surely this isn't the same woman who apparently finds Arthur's moronic servant appealing. Uther glances up and down the corridor, and finding it empty, permits himself to put an eye to the crack of the door. In the absence of spies, a king must be pragmatic, after all.

Gaius is standing behind one of the low wooden seats his chambers have been furnished with in deference to his age. Seated on it is the lady who spoke, wearing nothing but a shift and stays. Gaius's gnarled hands are tenderly arranging her dark, dishevelled hair.

“There,” he says.

She turns – yes, it's her – gives Gaius a smile just as full of affection as the old physician's voice had been, and impulsively plants a kiss on his cheek.

“Good heavens,” murmurs Uther. “Gaius, you sly dog.”

 

Gaius pauses for a moment as footsteps recede away down the hall; a passing servant, probably.

“What on earth was that, Merlin?” he says.

“Well, if I have to be a girl, I might as well act like it,” says Merlin cheekily. “How does it feel to have a daughter instead of a son?”

“If you think you can charm your way out of my bad books, Merlin, you've got another think coming,” says Gaius, but there's a certain reluctance in his sourness despite the words. Merlin grins; there are upsides to womanhood.

“However,” Gaius goes on, “we cannot possibly leave you like this. Sit down, and let's get to work before Arthur comes back.”

Merlin sighs. Far be it from Gaius to let any child of his get away with something for long.

 

On the hunt, an extraordinary affair in a country with little or no cover and deer that look to be more antlers than body, Arthur is principally surprised by two things. One, the sheer speed and nimbleness of the diminutive horse he's been given – not to mention its gloriously flowing gait – and two, the way he never seems to miss his mark. So far, he's brought down two of the ridiculous deer, and wounded a third. Arthur is well aware he's an excellent shot, even mounted, but he's starting to feel a little uneasy. Merlin did mention a suspicion of sorcery; so far, this seems positive, but he's inclined to worry about the potential sting in the tail. Some of the Sultan's courtiers are giving him inscrutable looks.

“You are very good,” says the Sultan himself, mounted on a magnificently harnessed black at Arthur's side. He's not that much older than Arthur is; a year or two, perhaps.

“Beginner's luck, I'm sure,” says Arthur politely.

“Tomorrow,” grins the Sultan, “we play buzkashi. Very good fun. We will truly see how skilful you are then.”

“Buzkashi?” asks Arthur.

“The chase of the goat. You will enjoy it very much, _emir_.”

 

Hours of detailed questioning and half-remembered spells later, Gaius steeples his fingers and looks at Merlin – who is Merlin again, and has been for some time – over them.

“I believe I understand what you did wrong,” he says.

“Great,” says Merlin, plastered limply across his chair. He's exhausted, more than anything; the change has settled down and is now happening every couple of hours or so, and he's starting to have trouble remembering which one he is. Not to mention that the closer it gets to the time when the hunters come back, the closer he is to going back to the sheer pain of trying to be Arthur's servant when half of the time he looks like someone else.

“I believe,” says Gaius, “that the sense of the spell you cast was continuous. That you said something like 'weaving me a woman', instead of issuing a command.”

“So what you're saying is that magic has a sick sense of humour,” Merlin says.

“Magic has no sense of humour at all,” says Gaius. “It merely does as it is told. Exactly as it is told.”

“But why do I keep changing back and forth?”

“The perils of metaphor, Merlin. You used the word weaving for transformation again. As a weaver passes a shuttle back and forth, so you are being passed back and forth from one form to another.”

Merlin's body chooses this moment to turn into a girl. He's been feeling the tingling in his fingers and the palms of his hands for a while. But he was concentrating, so he hasn't thought to take his breeches off, and there's a popping of stitches as they split for the second time that day.

“Bollocks, bollocks, _fuck_ ,” he says, and flops onto the table, hiding his face in his folded arms.

“I think,” says Gaius, “that we should find you some native clothes. Thawbs are far more roomy than breeches are, and they can be worn by women as well as men.”

“You mean those weird-looking nightshirt things?”

“I've always been rather fond of them,” says Gaius irritably. Merlin looks at his robes, blinks, and reassesses them.

“ _Salaam aleikum, kahin_ ,” he says.

“ _Khawi_ , if you don't mind,” Gaius replies.

 

When Arthur returns, Merlin's wearing a long light-coloured tunic thing.

“Merlin, why are you wearing a nightshirt?” he asks.

“It's not a nightshirt, it's a thawb,” says Merlin primly. “And it's much less hot.”

“You've been talking to Melinna again,” says Arthur. Though he can rather see Merlin's point; his breeches are sticking to him, even though they're linen ones. He pours himself a third glass of the rather glorious sherbet they keep around.

“There's a cool bath behind the screen,” says Merlin.

“You genius,” says Arthur, and peels off his shirt. “Now go and get Gaius, I want to know what buzz kashi is.”

“Before or after you're out of your bath?”

“Oh, after, I suppose.”

“I'll wait, then. Sire.”

Arthur flings his breeches onto the floor, and sees them disappear as Merlin picks them up. He settles, incredibly gratefully, into the bath.

“There's no need to make noises like that,” says Merlin, out of sight.

“Noises like what?”

“Like you're about to -” Merlin stops. “Never mind. Shall I wash your hair, sire?”

“That would be nice.”

Merlin appears around the pierced wood screen, and takes a decorated china pitcher off a table. He fills it from the bath, and gently tilts back Arthur's head. Arthur closes his eyes, feeling goosebumps thicken on his skin as the water chills his scalp. A moment later Merlin's fingers are stroking through the damp strands, smoothing away the dust and the weight of the day. Arthur knows that if he opens his eyes, Merlin will be sitting on the edge of the tub, one long leg crooked while the other holds him up. This place is alien; the food is wrong, the politics are wrong, the plants in the courtyard are dark spines and spears where they should be leafy and lush. Even the wooden screen exudes a faint exotic scent. But Merlin's touch, Merlin's odd little moments of genuine loyalty, are home; they're Camelot.

Arthur smiles, and he knows that Merlin's smiling too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed the mis-import...

“Buzkashi, sire,” says Gaius, managing to somehow look orderly even though they're sprawled on cushions without a chair in sight, “is probably the most dangerous game known to man.”

“Sounds wonderful,” says Arthur, almost feeling cool now that his hair's wet. In the corner, Merlin's filling glasses with sherbet. “How's it played?”

“The object is to carry the carcass of a goat to a circle on the ground.”

“Doesn't sound that bad.”

“The problem is the other riders, sire. It's very... no holds barred.”

“Superb. The Sultan did say I'd enjoy it, I think he was right.”

“It would also be the perfect assassination opportunity.”

“Ah.”

Merlin puts the glasses down and turns round. He looks pinched. “Assassination?” he says.

“Can't you be quiet for more than a moment together, Merlin?” says Arthur, eyeing the sherbet.

“You might be assassinated, and you want me not to care?” says Merlin mulishly. He always picks the most inopportune moments to overreact.

“I appreciate your loyalty, Merlin, but I think there are more important issues at stake,” Arthur says. “Like, for example, why you went to the harem instead of sending Melinna, and what exactly it means that the only effect of the enchantment I can see is to make me a better shot.”

“Melinna did go,” says Merlin instantly. Then he pauses. “She just didn't know what to look for.”

“And you do?”

“Sire,” Gaius interrupts smoothly. “I've been educating Merlin in the identification of sorcery. It is, after all, important to be informed.”

“A job you've often done for my father in the past.”

“And a job someone will need to do for you when you are King.”

Arthur nods decisively. “I approve. Don't tell him, for pity's sake, he'll have you hanged.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, sire.”

“And don't go dying before your time,” Arthur adds, affection creeping into his tone.

“I'll do my best,” says Gaius. Merlin smiles again; the same smile he gets when he's washing Arthur's hair. There's a moment of silence; Arthur feels something he rarely does, a sense that he's among family. 

He clears his throat, and returns to the matter at hand. “So you still don't know what the sorceress was trying to do.”

“I'm afraid not, sire.”

“It looks like we need to identify her, and find a way to get more information.”

“I only saw her from behind.”

Arthur sits back against the opulent cushions, all purples and scarlets and tassels of silk. He thinks back to the throne room of Sultan Malik, and the endless welcome speech; the Sultan himself lounging on an ottoman, the Valide on a low stool to his left, and ranged around them his numerous concubines. All of the women were jewelled and draped in elaborate gowns, and all except for the Valide were veiled as well.

“What was she wearing?” Arthur asks.

“Red,” says Merlin. “Red brocade, with a pattern of flowers.”

“The Sultan's favourite concubine. The Kadin.” She'd been seated beside the Valide, at the Sultan's feet. “I don't know her face, but her name is Nadwah bint Rajid ibn... I forget. She's the daughter of some sheikh. Father seemed to think that was important.”

“She is no longer the Kadin in the true sense, sire,” says Gaius. “She is the Sultan's first wife. He married her against the Valide's will.”

“I see,” said Arthur. “In the sense where I don't. Does that help us?”

Gaius and Merlin exchange a glance. “I think we can do something with the information,” Gaius says. His eyes narrow, and he ponders Arthur's words. “Many of the concubines are slaves,” he says. “The Kadin was not. She is said to be the loveliest woman in Samarkand; the Sultan was astonished by her beauty, and bought her from her father for a princely sum.”

“Very stirring, Gaius, but I don't see the connection, I'm afraid.”

“A slave has no lineage, sire. The Kadin does. Perhaps there is a political interest of her family's at stake. And the Sultan's favour is not in question, if he has married her.”

“I'm amazed either of you can remember all those names,” says Merlin.

“Be quiet, Merlin,” says Arthur. “And bring me that sherbet.”

 

Merlin returns to Gaius's chambers to wait for his next change and his chance to go into the seraglio again. It's not too long before his hands begin to tingle, and he reflexively rubs them.

“Merlin,” says Gaius.

“It's coming,” says Merlin, holding up his palms.

“Good,” says Gaius. “Come here, let me teach you a spell.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows.

“Do you think I never knew any magic at all?” says Gaius. “I simply don't use it anywhere in Camelot. Now, try not to pronounce this wrong.”

It turns out that it's a Samarkandi spell for languages; once Merlin's cast it, he can understand Arabic. 

“That's really useful,” he says.

“Indeed it is,” says Gaius. “Incidentally, don't ever attempt to translate it into the magic you know. The results are... not what you expect.”

“Really,” says Merlin.

“Indeed. Apparently the gift of tongues is something our magic doesn't quite grasp as it should.”

“I'm really not going to ask.”

“I'd advise against it.”

Merlin can't read Gaius's face as he says that, but honestly, he can guess. And honestly he thinks that knowing anything at all about Gaius's youthful high spirits would be too much. The tingling gets suddenly worse; he shuts his eyes, and feels his body shifting inside the baggy thawb. It is indeed much more accommodating to his hips when he turns. He nods at Gaius, and slips out of their rooms with the harem clothes bundled in his hand.

 

The harem, Merlin realises as he picks his way through its rear corridors with Melinna's diaphanous pants ballooning about his feet, is a kind of second palace. It's a maze of corridors and lofty rooms, just like the palace itself – but here, there are only women. Gaius's little white lie about the male concubines was exactly that; there's one man, the Kizlar Agha, who's allowed in here if he's needed. But he's a general, a eunuch and the Sultan's right hand. The Sultan orders concubines to be brought out when he offers them to guests; inside the harem, it's another world. 

There are women everywhere Merlin looks, serving, entertaining, relaxing, giving orders. Tall women, short women, beautiful and ugly. At some of the doors stand women he'd be scared stupid of if he met them on a dark night – women who make it clear why the seraglio needs no male guards. With every step he feels the brush of his thighs where they're round and soft at the top; his breasts sway in the deeply inadequate vest. He's a woman, and yet he's not; he knows he fits in, and yet he's certain he doesn't belong. It gives him an odd feeling, an ache; for the first time, as Melinna, he misses his cock. And his height, and the length of his stride; the comforting certainty that he's in a world where he ultimately belongs.  
It makes him pause and wonder how Gwen feels, walking through the halls of Camelot. There, the two worlds aren't separated by pierced wood screens and ornate walls, but live side by side – and yet in a way they're just as far apart. It's almost more honest to live the way the Samarkandi do.

“Careful,” he murmurs to himself. “You'll turn into a philosopher.”

“You! Odalisque.”

Instinctively Merlin scrambles against the wall and bows. It seems Gaius's language spell teaches more than just words.

“Where are you going like that?”

“I have been summoned to the Kadin, O favoured one.” He keeps his eyes down; he's being addressed by one of the higher odalisques, the Sultan's concubines. But the Kadin outranks her by far, and she turns away, flicking her veil over her shoulder in iritation.

“Then don't waste time. It is sacred.”

“In the eyes of God,” murmurs Merlin automatically, and feels his stomach twist with pain. The one god of the Samarkandi isn't his, and his magic doesn't like that. His gods are Camelot's; Brigantia and Hestia and Mithras and Herne, the homely mishmash of Albion's heroes and a few stubborn, half-absorbed Roman gods. 

A sweep of tingling flashes through his hands; his magic's wobbling. He goes cold all over, but it doesn't settle in, it subsides. He walks hurriedly on, offering a silent prayer to Herne of his beloved forests, the lord of the land: I belong to Albion, don't let me go. 

He turns a corner, and finds himself in an airy, beautiful room. Mosaics of tiny tiles that seem translucent cover the walls; a fountain plays in a crystalline pool, and many couches of pale blue silk line the walls. Upon one of them, alone – the first woman Merlin has seen so in this place – is a woman in red. The Kadin. 

“I have been expecting you, little one,” she says.

 

The Sultan, the Valide and the assembled courts are being entertained by the harem's finest dancers and musicians on a garden terrace. Uther, clad in a loose tunic of Pendragon red, takes Arthur by the shoulder and leads him away to the edge of the crowd. 

“Arthur, I trust you are taking all due care of yourself while you are here,” he says quietly.

“I beg your pardon, Father?” says Arthur, confused. Really, sometimes Uther despairs of the boy. 

“I am simply offering a warning,” says Uther, keeping his voice low. “I would not like to see my son hurt.”

“I'm afraid I really don't understand.”

“Women can be treacherous creatures, Arthur,” says Uther. He was hoping for Merlin to be present, to squirm at his words and give himself away. Unfortunately, the boy isn't there; not that he'd have done anything but stand there looking vacantly naïve. He really is a very talented hypocrite.

On Arthur's face, however, light dawns. “Oh, there's no need to worry about that,” he says cheerily. “Merlin and I have the matter well enough in hand.”

“Merlin and I,” Uther repeats carefully.

“Oh yes,” smiles Arthur. “Merlin's always keen to help out when it comes to things like that. Really, I find he halves my workload.”  
Yet once more, Uther regrets the secrets it is his duty to know as a king. Not merely Gaius – lecherous old satyr – not only Merlin, but Merlin and Arthur at once? Really, this Lady Whoever-she-is could only be a Le Fay. He's almost sorry he missed out on her himself. Somewhere between shocked, revolted and impressed, he claps his son on the back; Arthur's convoluted path to manhood has been of concern to him at times, but it seems he's finally found his niche. And it appears his servant really does have gifts Uther hasn't seen – and fervently hopes he never will.

“Excellent,” he says. “I'm sure you'll both have fun.”

“Really?” says Arthur. “I'm not sure Merlin can ride that well.”

Uther exercises regal privilege, and closes his ears to the very existence of that remark.

 

“What?” says Merlin. “I mean – Kadin Nadwah. Most favoured.” He bows in the proper way: gets right down to the ground.

“Come,” says the woman. “Do not offer me such lies. I know you, little weaver; sit beside me.” The Kadin really is beautiful; almond eyes, a perfect oval face, skin the colour of some exotic wood. She smiles at him, and her hair is like ink as it falls over her shoulders.

“You know me?” says Merlin, staying exactly where he is.

“You are his lover,” smiles the woman. “The prince, al-asad afra.” The white lion.

Merlin turns crimson. The Kadin laughs. “I feel your touch, protecting him. Do not fear.”

Merlin figures that if she's going to curse him, she's got him right where she wants him anyway. He goes over, and sits down.

“You know what I am?” he says.

“I know you would be beheaded if your true shape was seen here. You are a weaver of many things.”

“You know why I'm here, then.”

“Many roads have brought you to the Sultan's harem, I think.”

“Tell me how to keep him safe tomorrow,” Merlin says. “I can't let him die.”

“Little fool,” says Nadwah angrily, her dark eyes narrowing. “You would treat him like a child. He will conquer, or he will fall.”

Merlin feels anger coil in him. “If your faith in the Prince is so strong, Kadin, why were you enchanting his things? I saw you in the armoury.”

“The eye of the hawk is keen,” she says. Merlin hasn't got the slightest idea what she means; she could be insulting him or she could be impressed. He says nothing.

“My heart is not the enemy of your white prince, weaver,” says the Kadin, laying a hand on his arm. “He is a lion of strength, and he bears victory in his breast. Beware of those who would see that fail.”

Merlin's hands begin to tingle. The Sultan's wife, the sorceress, looks down at them.

“Go,” she says, and Merlin wouldn't swear that it's been as long as it usually has. She touched him; has she done something to him? Is she trying to get him killed? He's frozen.

“Quickly,” she says, half mocking. “Before your shame returns.”

Merlin runs, taking the shortest route he dares, his hands prickling so hard it burns. He's changing as he pulls himself over the garden wall, tumbling into a dusty rubbish heap at the back of the kitchen yard. Even palaces have their seamier sides, and as he lies on a heap of dessicated fruit peels with a pounding heart, he's glad. He finds his thawb, stuffed away behind a cart, beats the dust out of it and throws it on.

 

His route back to the guest wing of the palace is long and circumspect, and by the time he arrives Gaius is sitting alone in his chambers, reading by the flickering light of a lamp. It's a book in Arabic; the words are gibberish to Merlin. The spell must be wearing off. That, or he's shaking as much as he feels like he is.

“Gaius,” he says quietly.

“Merlin,” says Gaius. “I'm glad you're safe.”

“So am I,” Merlin says, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall. “It was close, Gaius. She knew who I was.”

“The Kadin?”

“Yes.”

“A sorceress, then.”

“No doubt. She – she said she isn't Arthur's enemy.”

“Tell me exactly what she said.”

“He bears victory in his breast, and beware of those who would see that fail.”

Gaius looks at him narrowly.

“The Kadin is a sorceress, and the Sheikh of Safwanat's oldest child,” he says, half to himself. “Safwanat is the easternmost province of Samarkand, and the Kadin wants Arthur to win tomorrow's game.”

Merlin can see the facts adding up in Gaius's mind, but he's so shaken up he can't follow them. “Gaius, what's going on?”

“The enemy she talked of,” says Gaius. “It's the Valide. She doesn't want Arthur to win and outshine her son. He's young, and Samarkand has a fragile peace with some of the eastern lands; he'd lose face if he lost his own nation's game to a scion of Albion. The Valide's been against Arthur being here from the start; this is why. The Kadin wants Arthur to win because it will create instability, and her father would stand to gain by that.”

“She'd really have him killed? The Valide?”

“Uther was a friend of her husband's, not of hers. She is the most superbly duplicitous woman I have ever known; Uther has no idea she loathes him at all. And buzkashi is not a safe sport for any man. Dear God, Merlin,” says Gaius quietly. “It's not about magic at all.”

“No,” says Merlin. “Just politics, and blood.”

He takes half a minute to scrub the rubbish heap off himself, and by the time he's put a clean tunic on he's Melinna again. He was right; the Kadin must have done something to make him change. But there's no time to lose; he goes to Arthur's chamber anyway, the tiled halls silent in the light of his lamp.


	3. Fic: The Queens of Samarkand (part 3)

“Arthur? Your highness?” says a voice in the dark.

Arthur is instantly on his guard, reaching for the dagger beside his bed.

“Melinna?”

“Yes.”

Arthur relaxes. “Your timing leaves a lot to be desired,” he says quietly. “I could have stabbed you.”

“I've come to – Merlin sent a message,” she says.

“Why couldn't he bring it himself?”

“Don't ask. Really, Arthur, it's important. Please just listen, just this once.”

“All right. What is it?”

“The buzkashi game. You can't win it. The Valide will have you killed.”

Every scrap of tension in Arthur's body leaves him in a rush. He falls back against the ornate headboard of the bed, and a laugh escapes him.

“What in the gods' names is funny about that?” says Melinna, sounding angry in the dark.

“As if I'd make a political gaffe like that,” says Arthur. “Melinna, I've been going to throw it all along. I'll give him a good fight, of course, but it isn't my game and it would be arrogant to win. A decent loss will give the future of this alliance a far better chance. It shows enough respect for the Sultan.”

“You mean he's going to know you're letting him win?”

“I should think so, yes.”

His bed dips as Melinna sits down on the edge.

“Oh, for _fuck's_ sake,” she says, muffled as if she has her face in her hands. “I've been running around like a complete bloody idiot – I nearly got _killed_ in that sodding harem – and you knew all along.”

“I didn't know the Valide was quite that protective,” says Arthur. “But I didn't think it would be wise to outshine the Sultan on his own turf.”

Melinna gives a drawn-out sniff, and Arthur realises she's crying.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “No need for that. Melinna, come here.”

She shuffles over to him, and he pulls her into a hug, tucking her head onto his shoulder. She's warm, and she seems to be wearing another of those nightshirt things Merlin's taken to.

“Thankyou,” he says. “I appreciate what you've done. It's not your battle to fight. Tell Merlin that, too, he's been looking tired.”

Melinna laughs, a single, silent shake.

“You don't usually do this,” she says, and she sounds sad.

“What?” says Arthur. “For you, I'd do it any night.”

She stills for a moment, then sighs. “No, I mean you wouldn't do it for – anyone else. Merlin, or someone.”

Arthur doesn't quite know how to respond. No, he wouldn't – but that's because he'd never, ever expect to find Merlin in tears in his chambers in the middle of the night. It's not that he'd draw the line at touching Merlin, or offering him comfort come to that. But Merlin would never ask. He's been itching to _do_ something about how exhausted Merlin's looked recently, and Merlin hasn't given him the chance.

“Well,” he says quietly, “ _if_ Merlin was a girl – which I do sometimes wonder about – and if he was upset, and in my chambers at some ungodly hour of the night -”

“Sorry,” says Melinna thickly.

“I told you, stop that. _If_ he was all those things, then I don't see why I wouldn't give him a hug.”

Melinna says nothing, and a moment later squeezes him tight. In all his born days Arthur will never, ever understand women, but right now it doesn't seem to matter much. He kisses her hair, and slides them both down till they're lying flat.

“I should -” Melinna wriggles, trying to get up.

“Nonsense,” says Arthur. “You're staying.”

“Oh gods, I don't care any more,” she says. “Just don't blame me for what you wake up to.” Arthur smiles and kisses her hair; girls are so easily worried, he thinks vaguely as he's dozing off.

 

When he wakes in the morning she's already gone; Merlin is there, rumpled but cheerful as he meanders about setting out breakfast. He's looking much more relaxed.

“Did Melinna mention -?” says Arthur.

“Yes,” says Merlin, smiling at him fondly. “But I could stand to hear it again.”

Something comes clear to Arthur, as he looks at that smile. No, he wouldn't draw the line at comforting Merlin, not at all.

“You and Melinna are very close, aren't you,” he says. “You treat her almost like a brother would.”

“I suppose I do,” says Merlin, and his smile gets wider before he turns away.

 

And then there's the buzkashi match. Merlin's glad he hadn't bothered wearing something clean; it's the same dusty thawb he hid outside the seraglio, and by the time the first chukka is over he's spent so much time running for his life as the playing field suddenly expands that he's as grey-brown as desert sand from his ankles to his waist. The players are worse; they've been thrown to the ground two or three times each, and they're living extensions of the desert. They're only identifiable by their horses, Arthur's unmistakable hair, and occasional splashes of blood. Arthur's doing magnificently, it must be said, as the second chukka begins; he really seems to have fallen in love with his horse, a fiery little native thing which moves like it's reading his mind, and he evades the first few attempts on the goat with comical ease. He makes it to within feet of the circle again and again before he's headed off or beaten back; each near miss draws absolute hysteria from the crowd. The Valide is watching from horseback, the better to escape ahead of the crowd in need; if the Sultan wasn't playing himself Merlin would be afraid for his life in the baying mob. Uther is mounted on a rather sturdier beast, which looks like it has the blood of destriers; Merlin watches the Valide when he can, and Gaius is right. She gives absolutely no hint of dislike towards the king of Albion.

The crowd howls; Merlin turns his attention back to the ring. Arthur is racing the Sultan, neck and neck; the Sultan cuts his whip across Arthur's cheek, and Arthur drops the goat. The Sultan's horse practically sits on its haunches as it slides to a halt, turns on a farthing, and the goat is in the Sultan's hand before Merlin can blink. Arthur's grin flashes wide and vicious under the blood as he turns his horse and charges the Sultan down.

The third chukka is like watching a pitched battle. Chaos, dust, yelling and the certain knowledge that it has to end in blood. Two horses collide, rearing chest to chest to avoid breaking their necks, and the goat flies into the air, describing a graceful arc as the riders are both thrown. Arthur catches it, and the chase is on. Every rider on the field – the Sultan at their head – is after him; they herd him like a stag away from the circle, and Arthur leans down over his horse's neck and urges it on.

It's a wonderful little beast, for all the sweat thickening its polished chestnut coat; it puts on a burst of speed, jinks sideways and cuts ahead of the Sultan, veering towards the goal. The Sultan's black is powerful for its size, and the gap is narrowing – but Arthur's too close, too quick, he can only win.

Arthur's horse trips, and goes down in a sickening fall. Merlin's heart lurches; Arthur's thrown free, the goat crushed beneath the horse's weight. Arthur gets up, and Merlin breathes again. The Sultan's black skids into his eyeline, sitting on its haunches again; it slides to a halt just short of the chestnut as it struggles up, head nodding unevenly as it limps away. The fall was horrendous, at full gallop it should have broken a leg; but it's lame, just lame. Miraculous. Arthur makes a dash for the goat on foot and Merlin quails again; the Sultan swings his horse, its broad backside blocking Arthur dangerously. He leans down from his saddle, picks up the goat, and wheels towards the goal. The other riders are yelling, closing in, but they're far, far too late. Arthur bends down, supporting himself on his thighs as he gets his breath, and the Sultan wins.

As his heart steadies back to a normal rhythm, understanding glimmers in Merlin's mind. All around him the crowd are invading the pitch, spooking the horses and pounding both the Sultan and Arthur on the back; Merlin is left behind, like a sandbar at low tide. He'd really think Arthur lost on pure luck - if he hadn't seen Arthur training horses to fall at Camelot. It was something a gypsy taught him, he said. A valuable tactic in a tight spot.

Tight indeed.

 

“Dear gods,” says Arthur, as he's staggering back to his rooms. “That's really the best game ever invented. We shall have to have it at the next tournament.”

“Goat and all?”

“Well, possibly not. A ball of some sort, perhaps.”

“That poor horse,” says Merlin. “I'm so glad it didn't break a leg.”

Arthur sobers, and looks ahead. “It was far too fast,” he says. “It shouldn't have been able to outrun that black. Not with my weight, and not after the length of the match.”

The Kadin's magic. They exchange a glance. Perhaps that was what saved it from the fall, as well. Merlin hopes so; it was a noble little beast. He's pensive as he helps Arthur out of his dust-caked clothes and into his bath, and if he lingers a little as he washes Arthur's hair, neither of them chooses to comment on it.

His hands begin to tingle as he's laying out Arthur's fresh clothes. He curses fervently under his breath.

“One moment, sire,” he says. “I was going to fetch some muscle rub from Gaius before you dress.”

“What a splendid idea,” says Arthur, and sprawls negligently on the carven bed, cleaning dust out from under his fingernails with the point of a knife. Merlin slips out, and into the nearest storeroom just as the change begins.

 

“Your highness?” says Melinna's voice, accompanied by a gentle knock. “Are you decent?”

“Barely,” says Arthur. “But do come in anyway.”

Melinna is smiling as she lets herself in. She's wearing a striped thawb in pale blues, and she has a bottle in her hand.

“Gaius wanted Merlin for something,” she says. “I thought perhaps I could help instead.”

“Perhaps you can.” Arthur's quite aware there's not much other than a damp cloth between her and his modesty; he also couldn't care less.

“I haven't had a chance to speak to you properly since I've been here,” he says. “Please tell me you don't have to rush off this time.”

“Oh no,” says Melinna. “I've got an hour or two, I think.”

Arthur goes over, and kisses her without preamble. She wraps her arms round his waist, and clings to him.

“You have no idea,” she says softly, “how hard it's been keeping my hands to myself.”

“You haven't,” said Arthur. “Not that I recall, anyway.”

She looks startled for a second, then grins. “When you look at it like that, I suppose I haven't.” She kisses him again.

“Would you rather take your time?” murmurs Arthur into her breath.

“No,” says Melinna. “I don't think I would.”

Arthur lifts off the loose tunic, and she's gloriously naked underneath.

 

”I'm going to pay for this tomorrow,” he says later, as Melinna curls into his side. “I'll need that muscle rub.”

“Ah, but the match was worth it, wasn't it?” she says, stroking his chest.

“I'd say so,” smirks Arthur. She was a lioness, in point of fact; he'd been thoroughly outclassed. She'd pinned him to the bed, and kissed every inch of him as if to reassure herself he was whole. He hadn't seen her in the crowd at the buzkashi match, not that he'd really had a great deal of time to look, but he has a feeling she must have been there somewhere.

“You know really,” he muses, resting his cheek against Melinna's silky hair, “I find myself wishing I saw more of you.”

“You've seen pretty much everything there is to see, haven't you?” She grins.

“No,” says Arthur, rolling onto his side to meet her eyes. “I mean I wish I could spend more time with you. You're – something special, Melinna, you really are. I feel completely at home with you.”

“Arthur, what are you saying?” says Melinna, nervously. Arthur's weighing up his next words, asking himself whether he really does mean what he thinks he does, when the moment is completely shattered by a knock. Melinna galvanises, leaping off the bed and vanishing behind a screen; Arthur grabs his damp cloth, and restores what little modesty he originally had.

It's a servant he hasn't seen before; a woman, for once. Her eyes flick knowingly over him.

“A gift,” she says, presenting him with a folded garment of rich-coloured cloth. “For the lady with the blue eyes. Blessings be upon you, _emir_.”

“And upon the Valide,” Arthur says, making an educated guess. The woman gives him an approving smile, and bows away.

“What's all this?” says Melinna, appearing again in her striped thawb. Arthur brushes a faint disappointment away.

“A present for you,” he says, and offers her the cloth.

“This is for me?” Melinna says.

“From the Valide herself,” says Arthur. “For the lady with the blue eyes, and brought to me. I think that might be a comment on our discretion, you know.”

“The Valide?” Melinna picks it up, and it spills over her hands; it's woven silk, rich-coloured stripes with strange geometric designs that seem to dance before his eyes. She shakes it out; it's a burnous, a half-circular cloak with a tassel on the wide hood. “It's beautiful.”

“Aren't you going to try it on?” says Arthur. She smiles, and slips it over her head. It's perfect; her dark hair looks glossy against the indigo and red, and its sheen makes her skin seem like porcelain.

“Stunning,” says Arthur, describing both the garment and the woman in it.

Melinna looks down at her hands. “Oh,” she says.

“Something wrong?” says Arthur.

“No,” says Melinna with a smile. “No, not at all. Arthur, I have to go. I'll be back, I promise – but I don't know when this time.” She darts in to press a kiss to his lips, and then slips out.

“Melinna, wait -” says Arthur, starting forward; but when he gets into the hall, she's already gone.

 

Merlin shuts himself in the nearest empty room he can find; the tingling sensation that warns him of his change isn't just in his hands any more. It's burning up his arms, suffising through his chest, making his whole body glow with a warmth like the summer sun over Camelot.

“Thankyou,” he whispers, as the magical robe made by the Sultan's own mother breaks his own spell, not just the Kadin's. “Thankyou, thankyou, _thankyou_.”

 

“I miss her already,” Arthur says the next day.

“I do too,” says Merlin. “Kind of.”

Melinna's lovely burnous is lying on the foot of his bed; it appeared there overnight, apparently by itself. Merlin picks it up and shakes it out, then refolds it, just so. Exactly the way the servants at Camelot would. Arthur stares, with the strangest sense that he's just seen something meaningful.

“Why did you do that?” he says.

Merlin starts. “Oh – I'm sorry,” he says. “I just thought... Melinna mentioned it.”

“It was made for her.”

“Yes, it was.”

Arthur looks down at the silk, and he's hit by a powerful wave of emotion. He might even say that he knows what he wants; and it's not, despite her lovely face and her nimble hands, Melinna.

“If I asked you to find her before she left, do you think you could?” he asks. Merlin's face alters a little.

“No,” he says. “I don't think she's here. I mean... maybe. I can look, but it may be a while.”

Arthur turns away, looks out at the courtyard where the strange greenery grows so thick. A hiding place for pretty ladies in diaphanous clothes. The palms seem to conceal not only the intrigues of this very foreign court, but the thousand foreign intrigues of his heart.

“Do you want me to find her?” asks Merlin, tightly.

Arthur spends a while looking out, watching the sunlight bathing the patterns on the tiles.

“No,” he says. “I don't think I do.”

There's silence, a long pause, but it's nothing like emptiness. He feels his heart begin to lift.

“Arthur?”

He turns; Merlin's all long slender limbs, dark messy hair. His eyes are huge, and his soft lips parted. He _still_ looks like he's wearing a nightshirt.

“Have I been a very dreadful fool?” Arthur asks him quietly.

Merlin's eyes don't widen; they deepen. Like stones changing colour when water washes them. “You mean –?”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “I do mean.”

He lets all the pride and distance of his birth leave him and drain away, and when he speaks next he's pleading, quietly.

“Come here, Merlin. Please,” he says.

Merlin does; Arthur is struck by his elegance, the beautiful shapes and angles his body creates. By his height, a match to Arthur's though he seems so much more slim. A faint shadow of stubble gives the lie to his delicate face; on instinct Arthur closes with him, and that shadow is the sweetest prickling against his lips. Merlin's hand falls on his shoulder, his breath ghosts across Arthur's skin; slowly, slowly Arthur withdraws. He rests his forehead against Merlin's, and for once in his life, he lets himself live.

“I can be very stupid sometimes,” he says softly. “I'm sorry if I've – I honestly didn't know. Melinna, she -”

“It's okay,” says Merlin. “Really, it is.”

 

“Your Majesty,” says the Valide, in that smoky, hypnotic accent. “It is a terrible shame you must leave so soon. I cannot commend you enough to meet your merits as they deserve.”

“You are, as ever, too kind,” says Uther. The Valide smiles. Behind her the silken walls of the pavilion billow in a gentle wind.

“I must also congratulate you on a fine son,” she says. “He is strong and courageous, and well advised.”

“The boy Merlin?” says Uther. “Yes, I've been pleasantly surprised. Really seems there's more to him than meets the eye.”

“I quite agree, my lord,” the Valide says knowingly. At times, Uther could almost think she's holding something back; but he has too much faith in her nature to believe that. She reminds him so much of Igraine sometimes.

“Yes,” he reflects quietly. “Merlin is a curious child. A little too prone to indulging Arthur's whims, but such loyalty is difficult to find.”

“A heart such as his is a glorious thing to recognise at one's side,” says the Valide. Her eyes are on Uther as she pours more sherbet for Gaius, with her own hand.

“And the wisdom to see it is a gift not granted to all, Valide Sultan Dalal,” the physician replies.

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

“Merlin?”

“Yes, sire?”

“I want you to find every single altar to Hestia within the walls of Camelot, and leave sweet wine and strawberries on _all_ of them. It is absolutely wonderful to be back.”

“Isn't it just. But you do know that's every single fireplace, Arthur.”

“Is it? Blast. Maybe we'll just put extra in this one, then.”

“Brandy might put the fire out less than wine.”

“Excellent thought. And Merlin?”

“Yes, sire?”

Arthur waits until Merlin looks up from unpacking a bag.

“Stop calling me sire,” he says, and kisses him.

This, here in his own rooms in Camelot, is the meaning of comfort. He's not thirsty, he's not hot, he has a sensible shirt of good thick linen and a real pair of breeches on; and best of all, they're not roasting him alive. And he's got Merlin, kissing him with mischievous flicks of his tongue and enveloping him in long arms that never quite seem to end up where he expects them to be. Merlin's lithe and strong and very male, and Arthur could do this all day given half a chance.

Only right now, something strange is happening in his arms. He doesn't want to break his concentration at all, but Merlin is shrinking, changing shape. His waist is dipping in, and where there were broad shoulders and the lazy drape of long arms from a height, there's a curve, and a kind of soft resettling. Arthur opens his eyes reluctantly; Melinna is looking up at him. He blinks.

For a moment he stares at her, dumbfounded; and then he remembers the burnous, and Merlin rumpled and happy the night after he slept at Melinna's side. And a hundred other tiny little things.

“Good gracious,” Arthur says.

Melinna – this sweet touchable little thing that is _Merlin_ inside – anxiously watches his realisation as it chases across his face. Arthur looks down at her and straightens; he folds his hands that little bit tighter across her back. Her lovely face melts in relief.

“ _Merlin_ ,” says Arthur, with a wry sort of tolerance.

Merlin bites his lip, and looks very, very shamefaced. “I really thought this had cleared up for good,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I actually have any Middle Eastern or Muslim readers, but it really is disturbingly apparent once you start writing something like this how much of the Western fantasy imagination concerning the Middle East is based on a sort of crazy debasement of the Ottoman empire, conflated with modern Islam. I'm no historian at all, though I enjoyed the research I managed online; so I can only apologise for any gratuitous misreadings of Middle Eastern culture I've made, and point out that none of this is _meant_ to be accurate. For a glossary that'll tell you what Merlin calls Gaius in Arabic, see [here](http://www.geocities.com/faskew/Colonial/Glossary/Arabic.htm).


End file.
